


Dust in my eyes

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: section7mfu, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14408475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya gives an unexpected answer to a questionShort affair challenge 23 April 2018. Prompts: dirty, white





	Dust in my eyes

**Dust in my eyes**

Kiev. 19 September 1941

Another huge explosion. People ran past him screaming but he stood back watching, fascinated, almost deafened by the blast, stunned by its scale, and sick with fear.

A girl, a little older and bigger than himself, caught his hand and dragged him away. “Come, boy, come. It’s not safe, you must run.” So, he ran with her, not knowing where they were going or where they would be safe.

Nowhere was safe. All the people they had run with dispersed along the way into any shelter they could find. The girl continued to hold his hand to keep him with her until, hearing planes overhead, she pulled him into a bombed-out, still-smoking ruin and down into the cellar.

They sat huddled together listening to the bombing, their arms round each other. “Don’t cry, boy. We’ll be all right.”

“I’m not crying. It’s dust in my eyes.”

“Where do you live, boy?”

“It’s all gone. There was a bomb. Nothing left…”

“You’re on your own now?”

“I don’t know where they went.”

“We’ll stay together, boy. We’ll be safe together.”

“All right.”

The girl brushed her fingers through the boy’s dusty white-blond hair. “Be brave… don’t cry. Don’t cry, boy… you’ll make me cry.”

The boy tightened his arms around her as she wept. “You’ve got pretty hair,” he ventured, trying to ease her fear and grief. “I like red hair.” But she sobbed even harder, burying her face in his bony little shoulder. “Can I come home with you?” he asked when she was a little calmer.

“No, it’s gone, too. And I lost them…”

“Oh – it’s just us then?”

“Yes, boy. Just us.” She sat up and squeezed his grubby little hand. He squeezed back.

“Shall we get married when we grow up?” That made her laugh. “We will be very happy,” he insisted. “You’ll wear a beautiful white dress and we’ll have lots of food and nice things, and lots of children.” There was a gap in his wide grin where the adult teeth were just appearing.

“You might change your mind,” she said, smiling herself. “How old are you?”

His grin disappeared. “It’s my birthday. I’m eight now.”

She looked at him gravely and said, “And you have been all alone for your birthday?”

“Yes,” he said and the great blue eyes filled again. “I’m hungry,” he said, and the tears overflowed and streaked the dirt and grey dust on his face. He scrubbed them angrily away with the sleeve of his disreputable jacket.

“There might be food hidden here somewhere. We’ll look, shall we?” she said.

There was no water but their search produced some mouldy bread, an onion and a limp carrot – a feast. They sat down to share it. “What’s your name?” he said, realising rather belatedly that you couldn’t ask someone to marry you if you didn’t know her name.

“Esther Abramovna,” she said, turning her own dirty, tear-stained face to his. “What’s yours?”

“Ilya Nikolaivitch,” he said.

oo000oo

New York. 18 September 1965

Saturday night; nearly midnight. The candles between them on the dining table were burning low. Napoleon poured more vodka into Illya's glass. Illya had been listening sympathetically but Napoleon hadn’t expected him to answer his slightly drunken question “did _you_ ever ask anyone to marry you?”

“Where did you go then?”

“We stayed where we were. We slept there curled up together for warmth but in the morning, she went … you know – to relieve herself… and she didn’t come back.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know… I couldn’t find her. Nothing good. She was Jewish.”

Napoleon stared at his friend and said, “What did you do afterwards?” and imagined a small boy running frightened through the ruined streets.

“I can’t remember.”

“But…”

“I survived.”

Napoleon tipped up his glass and drowned the lump in his throat with Scotch. Illya emptied his own glass and rose. “I ought to go home,” he said, “it’s late.”

“Why not stay? The spare bed’s always made up. It’s your birthday tomorrow – well, in a few minutes,” he said, looking at the clock. “Don’t spend it alone.”

Illya smiled. “I’m a big boy now, Napoleon. Don’t worry about me.”

“Can’t help it. Stay anyway. I’ll cook you a lavish breakfast.”

“All right, that sounds good, and I _am_ a bit drunk. Thanks.”

**ooo0000ooo**

**Author's Note:**

> The encirclement of Kiev was part of Operation Barbarossa, the Axis invasion of the Soviet Union. The Red Army lost some 700,500 killed, missing, or captured. German troops captured Kiev on 19 September 1941; it was burning and in ruins. The massacres at Babi Yar followed ten days later.


End file.
